


Et Nocte Perpetua

by ShadowsUnderground



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst, Dark!Thor, Inquisition, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Thorki - Freeform, Thunderfrost - Freeform, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowsUnderground/pseuds/ShadowsUnderground
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lifetime spent in shadow. An ominous state-sanctioned Inquisition determined to wipe sorcery out of existence. An emerald-eyed young mage, at long last captured by the witch hunters, his fate in the hands of the crown prince of a kingdom that despises him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rapta Malefica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a prompt on norsekink.
> 
> Some things you should know before going into this:
> 
> 1\. This is an AU, wherein the nine realms are instead more akin to countries. The distinction between the races of each realm/country is more prominent than our ethnic distinctions but less so than inter-species distinctions.   
> 2\. Rewrite history and add my own furnishings to the political system? Don't mind if I do!   
> 3\. After this chapter, this story will contain torture and rape (potentially gang rape), both of which may become graphic. Flee now or forever hold your peace.  
>  4. Use and abuse of Latin in chapter titles brought about by the OP's interest in Malleus Maleficarum and my own background of slowly forgotten Latin study.

 

The Asgardian sun was sinking in the sky, and Loki was lying beneath it, bleeding. He stared upward in shock for a moment, finally groaning and running his hand over his face. He rolled over, feeling cracked ribs ache inside of him before the magic in his bloodstream healed his internal injuries and spread to the surface of his skin, knitting the tears cleanly and leaving only trace amounts of blood behind to indicate there had been an abrasion.

“Damn it,” he muttered, sitting up and brushing little pieces of forest floor from his clothes and hair. He looked up toward the remaining stub of the tree branch that had broken under his weight when he’d tried leaping from it, intending to safely descend from the high branches of the trees and return to the ground. The broken branch had landed next to him when he’d fallen. His gaze slid to it and he gave it a sour glance.

“Was I too heavy for you? I should take that as an insult.” He looked to the bright red orb in his hand—so he had managed to retrieve that, at least. Good, he hadn’t fallen the equivalent of three stories for nothing. Lucky enough, he supposed, that there had been other branches beneath him to break his fall. And rip his clothing. Tch, bother.

Gathering himself and the three other apples he had managed to collect, he bit back the verbal abuse he had prepared against tree branches that broke under people who weren’t really even all that heavy and made the journey home.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome back,” his mother said as he walked through the doorway, followed promptly by, “The hell happened to you?”

“Climbing,” Loki said simply, dropping the satchel with the apples inside on the dining room table. “Brought you something. I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

She glanced at the satchel. “What’s this?”

Loki opened it up and reached inside, pulling out one of the fruits of his labor. The scarlet of its skin seemed to luminesce in the dim light of the setting sun coming through the window.

“Known colloquially as an apple of Iðunn. Among magicians anyway. I’ve been waiting for them to ripen; they don’t retain their properties for long afterwards. Take one; it’s good for you. Good for longevity.” He tossed one to her and she caught it, giving him an all too familiar look of weary but fond bewilderment. He merely smiled, taking one of the apples for himself and heading for the bath.

Sinking into the hot water, he took a slow bite of the apple. As his teeth sank into it, its skin turned gold under his fingers, its illusion of normality vanishing upon being breached. He watched it, pleased. There were so rarely opportunities to come across items imbued with old magic. He took another bite.

There was a single knock on the door, and his mother’s voice came muffled through the wood.

“Loki.”

His eyes flickered over to the door.

“Yes?”

There was a pause, briefly. “They came today.”

Loki’s teeth stilled against the skin of the apple. He slowly pulled it away from his lips. “Was there any trouble?”

He imagined his mother shaking her head. “No. Not this time. But you know, you have to be careful, right?”

“Yes, mother, of course. You remind me every time.”

“And I’ll keep reminding you. I know how smart you are and that you wouldn’t do anything reckless, but I’m going to worry about you anyway. Comes written in the job description.”

Loki smiled at that. “Thank you. I’ll lay low for a while. I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Good, good. Well. Enjoy your bath.”

He heard her return to the kitchen, and a shadow fell over his features. So they were on their rounds again. The Inquisition. Mage murderers— _Witch hunters_ , they called themselves—whose work in disappearing potential magic users was infamous. Whenever they made a visit nearby, he had to keep his guard up at all times. It wasn’t that he had a problem refraining from using spells, but were he to sustain an injury, like today, and by instinct not think twice about it, his body would heal nearly instantly and unmistakably by the influence of magic. His magic was his immune system and would leap naturally to his defense. Carelessness on his part could result in capture and death.

He realized after a moment that he had been frowning, lost in thought. He refocused on the apple, juice collecting in the crater left by his bites. A bead of it was readying itself to spill over onto the skin. Loki’s tongue darted out and licked it up before it could hit the water.

 

* * *

 

They came sporadically, without warning, scouring the land for any trace of their fearsome wicked witches. The Inquisition era had begun within Loki’s lifetime, starting after the end of the Great War, in which the autocratic monarchy of Asgard had crushed its longtime rival-enemy and southeastern neighbor Jotunheim. The war, which had raged for years and years, came to its devastating conclusion with the utter elimination of the kingdom of Jotunheim and all its people.

The Inquisition used words like “protection” and “the greater good” as a front for hunting down and killing of mages, but Loki was smart enough to know that its true purpose was to find any remaining mages who had fought on Jotunheim’s behalf and finish the job once and for all. Fear mongering tactics utilizing people’s religious, superstitious fears of those who wield magic was, though underhanded, a convenient and depressingly easy method of carrying out this final task.

Neither had the tales of what happened to those the Inquisition took prisoner escaped Loki’s ears. Preceded by a “trial” wherein the accused was formally branded guilty, the prisoners were shortly thereafter tortured via medieval methods until their life expired. While Loki, of course, despised the entire affair, he had no desire to die such an ugly death at the hands of such a crude institution, and thus he had no plans to antagonize the Inquisitors.

As it turns out, sometimes fate just fucks you.

 

* * *

 

Going out in public at all that week, in hindsight, was probably a mistake. But he was a good son, and good sons accompany their mothers when they go out shopping. And sometimes get distracted and go look at throwing knives while their mothers purchase food and other actual essentials. Well, he never said he was perfect.

The store was one in a long row of them, all part of an outdoor shopping arcade where the variety ranged from groceries to artisan crafts. Loki stood in front of the shop, inspecting the knives sitting on the table just outside of it while his mother browsed across the street from him. Blade designs ranged from plain to exquisitely ornate and varied in handling and shape, both of which affected the way the knife was thrown and its aerodynamic properties. Each set of knives was suited to a certain kind of individual’s preferences.

There was something right about a blade small enough to hide inside his clothes. Everything Loki was, his magic and identity, had to remain a private affair—maybe, then, it was just a natural inclination toward the secret possession of deadly talents. In any case, while he certainly held a partiality for ostentation, the quiet beauty of a knife fit his personality well. He had a small collection of his own, stored within the pocket of non-space occupied by and accessed via his magic.

He took one of the knives between his fingers, turned it over in his palm, felt its weight and imagined flinging it through the air and downing a distant target. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips.

He sensed the presence of malice before the words registered as someone came up behind him and said, a little too close to his ear, “The Inquisition is in the area, you know.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. “So I’ve heard.”

He heard a short, humorless chuckle as the person behind him smirked. “I’m surprised you’re not home avoiding them. I’m sure if they saw you they would have some questions about those eyes of yours.”

Loki rolled said eyes. “Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the genetics of those outside of your own inbred bloodline, but green eyes aren’t so inconceivable as you seem to think,” he retorted, stepping out from the interloper’s shadow.

Facing him, Loki saw that it was young man a few years his senior whom he saw incidentally on such occasions as this when he was forced to make contact with other people. Certainly, he couldn’t be the only one, but unlike most who found Loki suspicious, this particular individual lacked the decency to be quiet about it. He rarely actually spoke to Loki, but the times that he had were all subtly unfriendly and his words always carried some implication that Loki was one among the ranks of evil, demonic witches. Whether or not Loki had at some point gotten careless and done something to give rise to such impressions, he was of the opinion that this man was an idiot and promulgated rumors out of spite and a general unhappiness toward the absolute valuelessness of his own life.

“That’s quite a sharp tongue you’ve got. What is your name?”

“Lucretia,” Loki said, the lie slipping from his lips like quicksilver.

“Lucretia?” the man repeated, blinking. “That’s a girl’s name. What, are you a woman?”

“Perhaps if I were, you would summon with your minimal brainpower the decorum you might exhibit before a lady,” Loki snapped.

The air changed slightly. There was a stronger element of menace now coming from the other.

“Maybe we should find out now, and save them the work,” the lout said, backtracking to the witchcraft accusation. He reached out and grabbed Loki’s wrist before he could put sufficient distance between them, taking into his other hand one of the knives lying on the table. Loki made a sound of protest, trying to pull his arm away, but lacking the physical strength that many young, magicless men possessed, he could not break free.

The man brought the knife to Loki’s palm, holding it point down, not yet breaking the skin. “Do witches bleed red?” he said. Delighting in this. Sick bastard. Without warning he yanked Loki forward by his wrist and pressed the knife against his throat. A gasp caught and stilled beneath the blade.

“They say that witches don’t die when you drown them. Wonder if they’re capable of bleeding out like men.”

Loki let out a harsh sound of derision. “You expect me to believe you’ll commit murder in such a public place for the sake of confirming your superstitions? You truly are an idiot.”

“Try me,” said that hateful smile.

Loki growled, stepping backward and with his free hand swinging out and meeting the aggressor’s face in an open-handed slap. (Not a punch. A punch would start a fight, and invite a crowd.)

“Release me,” he commanded, coldly. “Now.”

The other man, whom Loki had quickly grown to detest, blinked in surprise, as if he was only now registering that he had been struck. Then he smiled again, as if Loki had done something to amuse him. He slowly loosed his grip on Loki’s wrist, and Loki immediately jerked it away.

There was the miniscule space of a moment during which Loki thought he would walk away and be molested no further. It was rudely shattered when he heard, “You won’t defend yourself with magic, you’re too smart for that. But I wonder, what would you do if you had a split second to decide whether she lives or dies?”

Loki went cold. He spun around, and made a connection between two observations. The first was that this brute was no longer looking at him. The second was that he was facing Loki’s mother, who was just emerging from one of the vendors. The throwing knife was still in the man’s hand. And the next five seconds played out like an explosion in space.

The man saw the alarm on Loki’s face, relished in it. Said, “Let’s find out.”

Loki shouted, “Don't—”

The knife was loosed and flew through the twenty meters of air between them and his mother.

Loki reacted, and in doing so sealed his fate with a crushing defeat.

His mother looked up in time to see the swiftly moving knife collide into a shimmering barrier of air in front of her and freeze, vibrating with the trauma of the abrupt seizure of movement, and fall to the ground, harmless.

There are instances when time slows, or stops, and during this frozen moment Loki’s vision blurred and the world became a deafening silence pounding in his ears. His eyes met his mother’s, hers filled with a dejected horror, and slowly, _slowly_ , his gaze traveled over the hazy images of suddenly quiet onlookers and stopped on the face of the man whose wide eyes echoed Loki’s own shock.

Then, the surprise slowly gave way to triumph.

The man smiled.

Loki’s mind blanked and he ran.

 

* * *

 

His mother arrived shortly after he retreated into the no-longer-safety of their home.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, his mother’s own voice clipping the end of his words: “Oh, Loki, what have you done?”

She dropped everything in her hands and rushed over to him, tremblingly reaching out to him and wrapping protective arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

After a minute, she pulled back and looked him in the eye, desperation covering her gently aging features.

“You have to go, Loki. Tonight. Now.” His mother squeezed his shoulders, urgency mixing with emotion in her wide eyes. “Disappear immediately, or they’ll take you away.”

Loki, his trembling hands loosely gripping her forearms, said in barely more than a whisper, “You must denounce me, Mother. Say that I bewitched you as part of my ruse. Tell them you never knew what I was, that you would never have taken me in if you had known I was a devil-worshipping witch-”

“You stop that right now,” she said, her voice suddenly stronger, freer of the moment’s rising panic. “Do not ask for the last thing I do as your mother to be condemning my own son. Now get ye gone, my dear boy, before they come after you with torches.”

The tears behind Loki’s eyes ached to fall, but alas, he would not cry in front of the mother he may never see again. They hugged, holding each other tightly for an instant, and then Loki tore himself away. “Goodbye, Mother,” he said.

And the green-eyed witch fled into the twilight.

 

* * *

 

Loki was proud of two things: his magic and his cleverness. Both were as useful for getting him into trouble as for getting him out of it, and while his confidence in them was well-earned, Loki was a single man up against an entire band of men who were specifically trained to hunt him down, capture him, and exterminate him.

His first priority was to forge a trail away from his mother’s home—at the very least, if he was captured, he could try to downplay the connection he had to her. Harboring a witch was punishable, he knew. He would either have to lie his way around the worst case scenario, or he would have to make himself so enticing that his head alone would satisfy them.

He wasn’t very surprised when he didn’t make it far, not really. There were so many of them, and they were so well prepared, obviously having received the tip-off already. He knew the woods better than they and managed to evade them for a while. He considered using the tree tops as part of his route, but discarded the idea when he figured it wouldn’t give him the distance he needed fast enough, and if they noticed him, he would be trapped. The cruel truth, he discovered, was that, in a time when brawn and violence trumped cleverness and thoughtfulness, he never stood a chance.

They appeared in front of him, a couple of them on horseback, blocking his path and swiftly vanquishing whatever hope he’d had of eluding the Inquisition. One of them stepped forward, eyes locked on Loki’s frame, all authoritative sternness and free of mercy.

“Stay put, witch. You can cooperate and come with us or we can drag you to your trial by your hair.”

Loki’s stance stayed rigid, and they closed in on him slowly. One of them produced from within his robe a long, very thin wire, thin as fishing line but shining faintly with the color of moonlight. Loki went cold inside. He recognized it, born of the necromancy of Svartalfheim, woven from hair and cursed to trap magic, rendering the victim helpless before the wielder of the bind…

There was a decision to be made within the next fraction of a second and Loki was already vaulting into action. A sharp rotation of his wrist produced a small throwing knife, summoned by his magic from nonexistence. He twisted his body around, his arm following through with his movement and flinging the knife into the throat of the Inquisitor who stood nearest to him. He immediately followed the trajectory of his knife, leaping over the body as it fell backwards to the ground, he fled for his life.

All of the Inquisitors took off after him save one. This man strode over to the now lifeless body and plucked the knife from its neck. He turned it over in his fingers, the faint green glow of magic dissipating. His lips curved upward and he murmured, “I see that the trial is no longer necessary.”

Loki ran. He could hear them following close behind him. Stealing a look over his shoulder, he counted two of them gaining on him to his right, and with a quick motion of his hand he threw up a force field that caught one of them in the face and chest, knocking the wind out of him. As that pursuer fell, Loki put all of his effort into making his legs move faster. He leapt over a large root sticking up from the ground and veered off between the trees.

He could feel the Inquisitor carrying the enchanted wire drawing nearer, could feel his flesh repulse its aura as the Inquisitor cast it his way. Loki realized, with fast-consuming dread, that it had found the signature of his magic in the air. With the length of it still wrapped around his attacker’s hand, it would pursue him until it touched him, at which point it would trap him, making any more running away impossible.

With this bleak awareness emerging to consciousness, he attempted to conjure up another force field, but the wire pierced straight through the magic, dissipating it into so much mist that was harmless to as the hunter ran through it. His magic rendered useless, he put all of his energy into running, the forest around him racing by in a blur until—

Until another Inquisitor darted out in front of him, cutting him off. Loki cried out, startled, thrown off balance for the briefest of moments—long enough for the wire to make contact with his back, and immediately it wrapped around his entire body. He found his arms being forced behind him, could feel its invisible presence bind his wrists together.

Loki cursed, his legs giving way, and he stumbled to the ground. In an instant they were upon him, and by the end of his next breath he was surrounded. They pinned him with their stares, variously sneers and glares, coldly victorious.

“You gave us quite the chase, witch,” said the booming voice of who Loki safely presumed to be their leader. He stepped forward, a man of intimidating height and an even more menacing muscular frame. The light of the dying sun behind him and Loki’s eyesight frantically trying to bounce back from sheer panic, it wasn’t until he stepped forward that Loki could make out his blond hair and startlingly blue eyes.

Loki’s eyes dropped to the forest floor, rage building behind them. He felt a hand fist in his hair and hissed when his head was yanked back, tilting his face toward his captor’s. Their eyes met, Loki’s brimming with defiance, holding the man’s blue stare.

“What an unusual color,” the deep voice said. “There have been rumors of a witch with eyes green as emeralds, with an exceptional talent for subversion. It’s quite a feat to have escaped capture for so long.”

“I heard that he bewitched countless humans so that he could hide amongst their numbers, protected inside of a human society,” one of the other Inquisitors piped up from behind him.

“I heard that he seduced a whole cavalry to avoid arrest,” another laughed. Loki huffed irritably. Haughty bastard.

The blond man’s mocking gaze didn’t leave Loki. His smugness pervaded his voice as he spoke his next words: “Well, one story I know to be true is that, of his entire race, the son of the king felled by my father’s hand and the brother of the crown prince felled by mine was the only one in history born with eyes of such a color. And that young prince, the only royal whose corpse could not be recovered, presumably escaped that day.”

Loki’s face, in a moment of weakness, revealed the shock of this revelation. “You are Thor Odinson,” he realized aloud.

Thor Odinson, first son of the king and heir to the Asgardian throne, smirked. “And you are Loki Laufeyson, the last of the Jotun, and the last drops of that monster’s wicked blood flow through your veins.”

Loki thrashed in his grip and against the invisible wire that bound him. “Let me go,” he snarled, “or I shall guarantee that each of you come to regret your pitiful existences.

Thor’s tireless smirk only deepened, and he twisted his grip in Loki’s hair so that Loki’s spine bent backwards, neck straining to accommodate the odd angle that the man towering over him demanded.

“I have finally found you, the last Jotun, and believe me, I am looking forward to at long last ending _your_ sorry existence, _witch_.”

On the last syllable he released his iron grip, and Loki fell to his side, panting. Thor looked down at him coldly for a half a beat more before turning away and commanding, “Bring him.”

Loki snarled, repelling their touch, but he alone could not fend off so many men. Their hands found his forearms and his body and they were not gentle. He reacted indignantly, and one of them had the _audacity_ to backhand him across the face before pulling a seal from his sleeve—another damnable commodity from Svartalfheim, no doubt—and pressing it to Loki’s exposed collarbone. The anti-magic screamed through his body, echoed in the scream that was torn from his throat. His eyes rolled back in his head and he blacked out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you may have gathered, I kind of took away the divinity of Thor, Loki, and the Asgardians. Also Asgard is like a kingdom. There's a trace of a fantasy element in here.
> 
> This is my first ever multi-chaptered fic! Also I am currently studying abroad and will be busy doing scholarly activities, so updates are bound to be sporadic. I've never had to worry about updating with new chapters before (!!), but I'll put forth my best effort not to take 46 months before the next one.
> 
> Thanks for reading chapter one!
> 
> Some notes about the title. "Et nocte perpetua" is taken from a lyric (points to whoever knows it), but said lyric is, naturally, written in unscholarly and inaccurate Latin. I might lose some people here, but here's an explanation: "Nocte" is "nox" written in the ablative case with "perpetua" being the feminine form of an adjective with an obvious English cognate, also, of course, in the ablative. While the phrase I used as a title is missing a preposition, it can be passably translated as "And In the Endless Night."
> 
> I'm sorry, I'm terrible at choosing titles. It's the last thing I do and I always rush through it because I'm in a hurry to just post the story.


	2. In Tenebras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the first domino falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me begin with an apology to OP and everyone with high expectations for this fic, because after almost a month of deliberation I concluded that there was no way I could make any more progress without abandoning all commitment to accuracy. In other words, from here on out, very little of what will happen will resemble things that actually took place during any Inquisition ever.
> 
> So I'll be approaching this from a standpoint much less grounded in reality. If you still want it to seem real and frightening, know that I got inspiration for whatever tortures are to follow from the minds and deeds of humans. Maybe that will just make you feel really bad and not actually help at all. Sorry again.
> 
> The good news is that the further I get into the story, the faster updates should occur, but I'm still working with an amorphous mess of ideas that might take a little while to get off the ground. With any luck the overall quality won't suffer.

Loki awoke, for the first time of many to follow, in darkness and fear. Cold and still unable to use his uncomfortably tied hands, he found after a long moment of disorientation that he was lying on his side, the floor smooth beneath his face. He groaned quietly, shaking his head once to clear it but succeeding merely in alerting him to a migrainous pain in his temple.

He stilled himself, closing his eyes for a minute to let them adjust to the lightless space. Upon attempting once more to make sense of his surroundings, he was able only to distinguish darker shadows within shadows, the silence broken by his uneven, anxious breathing.

There were footsteps, briefly, and then the door banged open, flooding the small room with dim light that was still strong enough to arouse protest in Loki’s retinas. His eyes shut automatically and he turned his face from the light. Opening his eyes to a squint, he looked up at the intruder warily and determined him to be no one of interest.

 “The witch is awake,” the nameless Inquisitor announced. He stepped aside, allowing the one person of consequence to take his place a few heartbeats after.

“So he is,” the golden prince’s deep voice rumbled. He stepped inside and the room became illuminated, as if his presence had forced the darkness to dissipate. Standing over Loki and peering down at him, Thor’s already impressive size became severely more daunting. With as much grace as he could muster, Loki twisted himself into a sitting position and glared up at Thor from the ground.

“Well done, Odinson,” Loki spat. “You’ve finally caught me. Come to boast before you have me carved into a decoration for your mantle?”

In spite of his triumphant smile, there was clear distaste in Thor’s eyes that never left. “Bound and defeated and yet you retain the strength to be insolent. It will truly be my pleasure to watch you slowly bleed dry, witch.”

Loki sneered. “What treachery must you have committed, that your punishment is to carry out Asgard’s wet work alongside your dogs?”

Thor reached down and grabbed Loki’s chin, forcing Loki to look at him eye-to-eye. A heavy ring on Thor’s middle finger, bearing the signet of Asgardian royalty, dug into Loki’s jaw. “It is no punishment, witch. I volunteered. And as Asgard’s heir, the duty to eliminate the final wretch of Jotunheim falls upon my shoulders.”

Loki laughed scoffingly. “ _This_ is the future ruler of Asgard, then. A man of eminence who yet revels in cruelty and gleefully stains his hands with the blood of the defenseless. Would that a prince of Jotunheim be seen bringing himself so low.”

The back of Thor’s hand connected with Loki’s cheek before he had time to notice its absence from his jaw. Loki very nearly fell over, but he managed to catch himself and hold back his startled cry. He slowly turned his face back to Thor, his green eyes hardened into a murderous glare. A rivulet of blood trickled down his cheek from where Thor’s ring had connected.

“That tongue of yours will bring you trouble, witch. I guarantee you will enjoy your stay here significantly less should you not learn to restrain it.”

“I have little doubt that the experience will be largely the same regardless of how I behave, _Odinson_.”

Thor took Loki’s face in hand again, cupping his cheek in a faux-sweet manner, a caress that promised eternities of pain. “An unpleasant experience,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the cut on Loki’s face, “is fully within my capabilities to ensure.” He moved his thumb, wet with blood, to Loki’s lip, smearing the soft flesh with red. “So don’t push your luck, you bitch.”

Thor slowly withdrew his hand and licked the remaining blood from it, meeting Loki’s glower as Loki’s magic kicked in and pushed new cells into the tiny wound, closing and restoring the skin. Thor’s eyes narrowed.

“What…”

He took Loki’s face in hand again, tilting it to inspect the vanished wound, running a finger over the knitted flesh.

“Is something the matter, my liege?” asked the Inquisitor from before, taking a step further into the room than his place by the door.

Thor ignored him, again addressing Loki. “Perhaps you can explain this, witch, unless you would rather I get creative and figure it out for myself.”

“It’s my magic,” Loki snapped. “It protects me from men with violent tempers such as yourself.”

The subordinate Inquisitor, now noticing the oddity, asked from behind Thor, “How many others like you are there? If you have any accomplices, it would be in your best interest to report them now and save yourself some pain later.”

Loki resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You said it yourself, Odinson. All the Jotun are dead but me.”

The Inquisitor spoke again. “While you were hiding amongst the Aesir, you were living with a woman you called your ‘mother,’ weren’t you? Isn’t that reason enough to suspect you weren’t alone in your devilry?”

“No! No,” Loki denied, too fast perhaps, but letting his mother die at the hands of the Inquisition was unthinkable. “I was completely alone after that war. She took me in. That’s all—she has no hand in any of this!”

“But she knew what you were, didn’t she,” Thor stated, pinning Loki under a condescending sort of half smile. “You know the laws, I’m sure. At the very least she should be given a criminal’s sentence.”

“Don’t you dare!” Loki growled, and for a second his eyes flashed menacingly. “Leave her out of this.” The fire in his eyes cooled as by sheer force of will he pushed it down. He swallowed, and added, “Please.”

There was a protracted silence between them. Loki could feel whatever control he had slipping from him, the dynamic of their interaction becoming swiftly less balanced.

“Why don’t you answer some questions for me, then?” Thor said eventually. “Stand on trial, here, in her place.”

Loki swallowed, acknowledging that he had lost what little power he had here. “Very well,” he forced out.

Thor smiled. _Good boy_. “I’d like to know more about your… unique biology. How are you doing this when you’re bound in Svartalfar deadline?”

 _Deadline_ , Loki thought. The damned wire imprisoning his magic inside of his own body.

Loki resignedly surrendered the information. “My magic exists within my blood. It allows me to manipulate the natural world while also protecting me from within. You have bound my magic inward, but while I cannot wield it consciously my injuries will nonetheless heal.”

Thor looked pensive. “How much damage can your magic heal before you die? You can die, can you not?”

“It protects me against disease and sustains me in the absence of proper care. Obviously I don’t know at which point I can no longer recover.” Loki searched Thor’s face, bit his lip, and grudgingly added, “However, I suspect that so long as neither my brain nor heart are destroyed, it will continually try to restore me.”

Thor let Loki’s words sink in. “You are telling me that we can torture you and deprive you of nourishment, and you will survive. I can only imagine what the scientists of Midgard would pay to get their hands on someone like you.”

To his dismay, Loki recognized a stroke of fear shudder through his bones. The Midgardians, famous for their technological developments, most often conducted their research for the collective benefit. But there were accounts, too, of horrific experimentation on live subjects, more torture than science, wherein they humiliated and eviscerated and used their victims to discover how long the body could survive in agony, until for want of its excised entrails it finally perished…

Loki pushed those thoughts away and forced himself to answer Thor. “So long as my magic holds out, I believe so.”

“How rare is this? I don’t remember any of the others having that power,” the Inquisitor said.

“Perhaps you’ve been spending Asgard’s time and resources executing innocent people,” Loki snapped before he could catch himself. Both of them cast dark looks upon him. He waited a moment, hoping the tension would ease a bit, before saying, “I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Swear that you will not go after my mother.”

“Indeed, witch. I’m finished with you for now,” Thor said. “And so the prosecution rests.” He turned toward the Inquisitor. “I’ll let you determine the conclusion, friend.”

Loki’s eyes flared angrily.Thor turned from Loki and went to lean against the wall by the door. The Inquisitor leered as he approached Loki.

“It would appear as if your mother’s fate is in my hands, witch,” he said. “So why don’t you convince me to let her live.”

Loki leveled wary eyes on him. “Would you like me to lick your boots clean? Or perhaps you too wish for a lesson about my magic? I’m afraid the material may be a bit complex for someone of your intellect.”

Anger flashed across the Inquisitor’s face, and Loki found himself forced to his knees by a hand in the hair near his nape, mimicking the moment he was first introduced to Thor.

“You really must learn some humility, and quickly. I can and will have your mother put to death, you _bitch_.”

Loki sucked in a breath. _Don’t push it_.

“I’m sorry,” Loki said, hoping he sounded sincere. “I’ll give you what you want.”

The Inquisitor, unappeased, did not release him. “I think that since controlling your mouth is so hard for you, I’ll help you learn a better use for it.”

He was pulling at the drawstrings of his trousers and Loki knew where this was headed.

“Wait,” Loki said, speaking hastily. “Please, I’m sorry for what I said. I will answer whatever you would—“

“This is a trial, isn’t it?” the Inquisitor said, casually stroking himself to hardness. “So why don’t you stop making things worse for yourself and ready your defense.”

He yanked on Loki’s hair, and the mage stumbled forward. He could feel the heat coming off of the other man, and he knew he had lost. The Inquisitor’s voice fell to a low growl.

“I’m afraid the jury’s out on this one. But maybe you can bribe the judge.”

Loki stifled a sob as the man’s cock was shoved between his lips. There were several merciless thrusts and then the hand in his hair vanished, clear in its intent to let Loki finish the job himself.

Loki, green eyes filled with hateful tears, nonetheless obediently began sucking him off, sheathing the offending member in his throat and letting his spasming tongue bring this man to pleasure. From where he stood by the doorway, Thor watched his humiliation with a grin.

Loki felt the Inquisitor’s hand curl around to rest on the back of his head and his ministrations were met with shallow thrusts. Several times he almost choked and had to fight to regain his composure, unable to prevent his small, miserable moans.

Thor laughed silently and let him plead his case.

  

* * *

 

He obeyed without resistance when his mouth filled with cum and he was told to swallow it. Helplessly he forced it down his throat, and the hand that still retained the grip in his hair now used it to toss him aside like trash. The Inquisitor looked down on him coldly and reassembled himself. As Loki coughed and blinked away outraged tears, Thor came toward him and knelt in front of him. With a single finger he tipped Loki’s chin up.

“No one will go after your mother, witch.” Loki opened his eyes, green and wet and beautiful, and once more met Thor’s gaze. “On my honor as the son of Odin my king I swear it.”

Thor stared deep into him, long enough for Loki to confirm the truthfulness of his vow, and somewhere inside of him Loki could feel those cobalt twins pierce, twist, and violate his soul.

“And you, _malefica_ of Jotunheim, will never see her again.”

Thor’s finger slid away and the tears finally fell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun in-AU information goes here!
> 
> How did the Inquisition acquire the wards and binds from Svartalfheim? This is how I imagine it in this AU: Svartalfheim is politically isolationist and maintains international relations purely for economic reasons. It maintains no alliances and prefers to keep out of others' affairs. This means that they were not involved in the war that destroyed Jotunheim (except, perhaps, as weapons sellers), and so although they are a sorcery-wielding nation-state, they are not on the Inquisition's hit list.
> 
> I did warn you about my making up a bunch of unnecessary political background, right?
> 
> Anyway, this took a long time because I am still trying to untangle my aforementioned mess of ideas and develop a chronology. I'm not really satisfied with this chapter, but it should suffice as a springboard into what's to come.
> 
> Hopefully the next update won't take me as long. Torture and other horrible things begin next chapter.


	3. Et lingua eius loquetur indicium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki learns, with open eyes, that nightmares really do come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY THAT THIS TOOK SO LONG. I was going to try to force myself to work on it in December because I had a few days off, but on the first day of vacation my laptop's hard drive took a harder boning than Loki is about to in this story, so I couldn't. I had to wait for a new computer to arrive from overseas, which got here right as finals and essays took over my life. As soon as that ended I churned out this chapter. Thanks for your patience, or lack thereof. I don't blame you.

There was bitterness on his tongue and bitterness in his reluctant resignation. On numb legs he let himself be guided from the small, dark cell with one captor on either side of him, Thor’s hand securely fastened around his bicep. They routed him into the darker recesses of this dungeon, buried deep underneath Asgard, no doubt—a lightless killing field for magic users.  
  
They stopped in front of a door that looked anachronistic amidst the stony, rusted gloom of the rest of the prison that they passed. Smooth, chrome, and unremarkable, the only feature distinguishable to the eye was the lock system linked to the handle, at the top of which there was engraved a rune that Loki didn’t recognize, though he could easily guess as to its nature. The Inquisitor left Loki’s side to open the door for his liege, and as the handle turned and the locks slid around, the rune at the top of the door gave a brief, pulsating glow which disappeared before the door opened. Thor pushed Loki inside and excused his inferior before stepping inside the room himself. The door shut behind him. They were alone.  
  
The room (cell, he presumed) was even less remarkable than the door, to Loki’s surprise. Not knowing what to expect, he was taken aback nonetheless by its emptiness. A few torture devices at least would have made sense, albeit failed to put him at ease, but this room didn’t have so much as a table to which he could be strapped down. Loki found that the emptiness unsettled him more than a bloodstained floor might have.  
  
Thor approached him, crossing the distance between them in long strides. Loki’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back away. The golden prince walked past him and stood behind him, took a dagger from its sheath at his thigh, and, holding Loki in place, cut off the magic-clotting deadline that had bound him since his capture.  
  
Loki’s mouth opened in surprise, but he refrained from speaking. Instead he turned slowly around to look dubiously at Thor. He rubbed his arms, trying to subtly work out the aches.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked lowly after leveling his stony gaze at Thor.  
  
The corner of Thor’s mouth quirked upward. “This is your prison now, witch. Needless to say, I am quite confident in my safety whether you are tied down or not.” Loki glared warily at him. “Go on, feel free to try to escape. I will not lift a finger against you.”  
  
“You’re lying,” Loki whispered, or hissed. Thor laughed at that.  
  
“You, who lived your entire life in deception and shadow, accuse me to be a liar. Surely you appreciate the irony in that.” The laughter in his eyes cooled. He looked down at Loki with an arrogance that seemed to vastly exaggerate the small difference in their height. “Try something, witch.”  
  
Loki hesitated, then slowly began backing away from Thor, toward the door that locked them inside. Halfway between Thor and the room’s exit, he tensed his muscles and sprang at Thor, his long fingers straightening into a knife configuration. The warrior prince sidestepped Loki, and his hand, made imprecise by the numbness from his earlier bound state, slid harmlessly past Thor’s throat. Loki snarled and halted, reversing his momentum and pivoting into a kick. Thor caught him by the ankle before his heel could connect and pulled, forcing Loki off balance and tossing him to the floor. Loki landed in a crouch, swiveled an extended hand and rushed Thor again, a small throwing knife now between his fingers, pulled from the non-space no longer locked away by the translucent wire lying severed on the floor.  
  
It was a fight which started and ended in an instant. Loki’s white-knuckled grip on the knife stopped short of Thor’s face by a foot; Loki’s eyes widened in a silent scream of startled rage, and then his limbs were immobilized once more as the room’s true nature came to life.  
  
Thor’s almost impassive face, whose golden brilliance had not once during the encounter been eclipsed by fear, approached a gasping Loki, from whose slender fingers the knife fell to strike the floor. It rang through Loki’s mind like a bullet hitting a bell.  
  
“Magnificent, isn’t it,” Thor said, his tone conversational. Loki tried to stifle his little cries and gasps of pain as his arms and legs were constricted by thin chains that extended from nowhere. He felt a thin line of metal coldness wrapped around his neck, preventing him from looking away from Thor. Suspended in air, the helpless, angry shock of what he could not yet explain quaked through his muscles and was stoppered by the chains.  
  
“What is this?” Loki whispered, the words choked and alarmed.  
  
“This room was created specifically for creatures like you,” Thor said. The color of the room had changed. There was an atmosphere of utter darkness, magic blacker than his own, hanging tangibly in the air, a violet malevolence.  
  
“Here, your true prison is your own body,” Thor continued cryptically.  
  
“Answer me!” Loki snarled, bending and twisting his arms but unable to loosen the biting grip of the chains.  
  
Thor smiled, and raising a hand, mimicked Loki’s gesture and, to Loki’s horror, procured a knife from thin air.  
  
“Everything you are, every demonic part of you, belongs to me now, witch. The Jotun is helpless before the Aesir once again.”  
  
Loki’s body trembled, in rage and mounting terror, as he processed Thor’s meaning. Whatever enchantment or curse existed in this space pulled his power from within his body and forced him to forfeit control over it to his abductors. It was... heinous, taking the one most intimate part of him and manipulating it to subjugate him. This room, this method, was beyond barbaric. The Aesir weren’t just conquerors; they were monsters.  
  
“You are a fiend,” Loki said in the same fear-choked whisper, his green eyes burning brightly in hate.  
  
Thor’s hand— _Loki’s knife_ —descended upon him, leaving a slash mark diagonally across his chest. Blood seeped through the cut cloth, and the gash stung hotly before his magic knitted the skin back together.  
  
“Yet you, Jotun, are a creature capable of _this_.” Thor’s blunt nails scratched across his chest where the cut had been, ripping his shirt further and leaving red marks that rose and then vanished. “There is nothing about you that is noble or natural. We do the world a service by caging such a beast.”  
  
“How dare you,” Loki said, “you depraved psychopath. You are no more than a sadist and a murderer. How fitting that the slaughterer of an entire people fathered a son like you.”  
  
He felt the blow before he heard it, another vicious backhand from the hot-tempered prince. Defiantly he spat the blood from his mouth before glaring again at Thor.  
  
“You are the son of Laufey, Sovereign of Jotunheim,” Thor growled lowly with a hatred undisguised. “You were born to be a king; and yet you will die here, choking on your own blood, with no higher status than a butchered animal or a servant’s slut. You will remain here until you learn your place, and then I will kill you and bring the last chapter of a glorious war to its long-awaited end.”  
  
Loki’s cried out as needle-like flashes hurtled out of subspace and pierced him everywhere, leaving superficial but bleeding wounds behind and shredding his clothes. The chains binding his limbs shifted, putting him down hard onto his knees and pulling his arms above him. A chain around his waist prevented him from moving to rise. The remains of his clothes hung off his body, the waistline of his trousers sliding down to reveal the bone of a hip.  
  
“There is no escape,” Thor said, his voice cool and level and controlled again. “Perhaps a night spent like this once in a while will humble you, until the day you kneel, untouched, at my command. Until the day you _die_ kneeling.”  
  
The wrath in Loki’s eyes was steadily giving way to terror and the helplessness that they would come to know well. Satisfied for the moment, the Crown Prince of Asgard turned and exited the room through a door that was no longer visible to Loki. As he left, the fastening lock left echoes in the air, and the mage was plunged into darkness blacker than a sky obscured by storm.

 

* * *

 

In this paradox room, Loki had no measure of space or time, had no proof that either existed as reality here. If he pulled against his restraints, he could hear the rattling of the chains that extended into nothingness. In blinding darkness, Loki lost himself, slipping in and out of consciousness for unrecorded hours, scared to break the silence with his voice. His thighs felt cold beneath a biting metal grip.  
  
The next time Loki saw light, he was waking to cruel words sweetly spoken and a knife at his throat.  
  
“Wake up, Jotun princeling,” a voice was saying. Dizzily he opened his eyes, the image in front of him blurring and undulating and finally swimming into focus. There was a figure clad in black with a face hidden in shadow, a gloved hand gripping the handle of a sharp silver blade whose edge snagged sinisterly at his pulse.  
  
Once the room stopped spinning, Loki lifted his eyes to peer stonily at the Inquisitor. A hand appeared at the knifeman’s shoulder, and he moved out of the way, dragging the flat of the blade across Loki’s neck as he did so. A blond crown entered Loki’s vision, and the face that was sure to become the crux of every nightmare he survived from now on materialized once more.  
  
Loki’s lips moved once, twice, before he recovered his voice.  
  
“You may as well kill me now,” Loki said. “You have no need of a confession from me. There is no one left alive who can be used against me, nor can I incriminate anyone else of interest to you.”  
  
Thor scoffed. “Be not so eager to die, little witch. Don’t you see? I am in no rush to kill you because you do not deserve the _mercy_ of a quick death. During that war, you Jotun demon-witches inflicted unspeakable tortures upon Aesir warriors with that vile magic of yours. I intend to let you experience every torment that my brothers in arms suffered.” Thor’s fingers curled around Loki’s skull, tangling in the black hair. “After you have been eviscerated with ice, had your bones crushed into splinters, had the flesh burned from your limbs by frostbite—once you are nothing more than a screaming, broken, demented husk—only then will I tear your heart from your chest and let you bleed to death.”  
  
Their eyes met in a flash of blue-green fire. Loki’s voice wavered, to his credit, only once, when he said, “You claim this to be vengeance, yet you act with no honor. Torturing and killing me will give you nothing that you have not already reaped from the war. Every other Jotun is long dead! Nothing of my home remains. You have already stolen everything precious from me. How dare you presume that anything I have left is yours to take?”  
  
Thor’s hand slid along Loki’s neck and wrapped around his jugular. His other hand joined it. “It may be so that your death will not undo those of my comrades,” he said. His grip tightened slowly. “It will not even make up for the sins of the bastard king who mutilated my father.” Loki began to choke, unable to do more than struggle weakly against the chains. “But I will not be satisfied until every Jotun is dead. Every. Last. One.”  
  
Loki could no longer glare into Thor’s eyes. The bright specks of blue were hidden behind a spotty black haze. A thin trail of saliva slid from the corner of his mouth, his throat unable to swallow it down.  
  
Then Thor released him, and he gasped and coughed as for the second time he was forced to try to reorient himself. He nearly thought better of it, but his pride would not allow him to keep his head bowed before the Aesir prince. He raised his chin and leveled his glare on Thor again.  
  
The blue eyes were icier than the arctic magics of his fallen Jotunheim. Thor’s hand twitched and Loki felt piercing cold bite through him, and he realized that the chains around his body were moving and shifting and transforming into a horrifyingly familiar scintillating blue ice. The prince was manipulating the sorcery of Jotunheim— _his_ magic. It was encasing him like rope or wire, reaching subzero temperatures and surpassing them, the cloth of his torn clothes shattering off his body as he had seen it happen years ago.  
  
He threw his head back and screamed, wide-eyed, every muscle in his body tensing, every nerve fighting to survive this overload of cold and pain. The ice, in its gradual spiral up his body, encircled his neck and entered his mouth, gagging him and freeze-burning his tongue. One of Thor’s Inquisitors, uncaring of his muffled screams, circled around him and took his knife to Loki’s back.  
  
The pain of being carved up was amplified superbly by the cold. Loki’s back arched as far as it could in his kneeling, fettered position, trying to escape the sharp incisions that only went deeper, taunting him cruelly. Thor watched in amusement, unmoved by Loki’s agony.  
  
It seemed like an age had passed, but the ice eventually retreated from his body, and he was left with only his wrists bound once more by chains that stretched toward the invisible ceiling and disappeared. Blood ran down his back. His chest heaved with dry sobs, his flesh convulsing at the memory of the bite of winter.  
  
The ice had left red marks across his skin, which he knew would fade in time as his magic erased the damage. The Inquisitor behind him spoke to Thor.  
  
“It’s already fading,” he said, sounding disappointed.  
  
Thor was unfazed as he answered, “We will simply have to carve it into him until it stays, then.”  
  
Shivering, naked, and defeated, Loki demanded hoarsely, “What did you let your dog incise on my body?”  
  
Thor smiled, and Loki found himself hoisted up by the chains, which shot down from above and up from the floor and wrapped around his legs, binding them, and suspending him midair. “Your penance will resume shortly, witch,” Thor said, turning from Loki and exiting with the Inquisitors through the door that Loki could not see.  
  
“Damn you!” Loki screamed at the disappearing figures, before the light from nowhere ceased to be and he was deserted yet again in shadow. He trembled in the dark, his body smarting, choking down his hated sobs as the bleeding Asgardian crest vanished slowly from his back.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been sending encouragement for convincing me not to abandon this thing right here and now. There is a destination, I swear! Stay tuned for actual plot after all this bullshit meandering is over.


	4. Opera Maleficorum

There was too much darkness to remember slipping into unconsciousness. The next time Loki saw light, he lay on the floor, covered in the chains that had restricted him so austerely last his eyes were open. Upon him and around him there was no blood, nor any sign that there had been a struggle and a torture. The room was eerily clean when the Inquisitors came to play again.

It was like that every time, though he could no longer reliably refer to his periods of wakefulness and slumber as day and night; they would leave him bloodied and beaten and brutalized and he would awake on the floor, naked and vulnerable but whole. Again and again, as if time reset each time he lapsed into sleep, like a skipping record doomed to repeat the same measure over and over and never reach the cadence.

Loki had realized quickly the futility of keeping track of time, of even keeping tallies of how many times he had reawoken to the cruel discovery that this nightmare was his reality or how many times they had broken his fingers or spilled his blood.

The man with the knife did try to carve the Asgardian crest into Loki’s back again, but had grown bored and given up before completing it. Since, he had taken to burning his marks into Loki’s flesh, branding him like livestock before the unsympathetic eyes of his prince. The damage that healed on his body left invisible psychological scars. In that darkness blanketing him like dust he would dream his memories, Thor’s icy eyes and the laughing torturers right alongside images of the golden apple trees and his mother’s face, which, buried beneath his trauma, he was slowly coming to forget.

Death whispered from the darkness, promising to reach down his throat and pull the life out of him. Half-alive, he lay immersed in shadow for hours, waiting for death to fulfill its vow. 

 

* * *

  

Thor often came to supervise the tortures personally. There were intermittent sessions for which he was absent, and the Inquisitors would stray from his methodical, psychological forms of torture into baser territory of testing his pain threshold for their own amusement. His days consisted of _hate_ and _endure_ , and he wasn’t sure which he would surrender first.

“Awake, Loki of Jotunheim,” Thor’s voice boomed over the sound of approaching footsteps.

Loki’s eyes fluttered open, and at the sight of Thor, his instinctive fear made him shy away. He stopped himself from cowering for longer than a second, sitting up and turning his face away but making no effort to cover himself. He was helpless and exposed and escape was futile and he and Thor both new that.

Thor stopped in front of Loki. “No words today?” he said after a moment of waiting. Still Loki said nothing. The cell was disgustingly clean after hours in agony, his flesh baring no sign of the bruises and the burns and the blood. Many of the Inquisitors liked to use fire; they knew well a Jotun’s fear. It had occurred to him, long after they left and as he lay shuddering in pain, that they may have tested this approach on Jotun before.

The prince’s shadow grew thick as he bent over Loki, seizing his jaw and forcing him to meet his eyes. Thor’s scrutiny dug deep into the forest green. He saw fear and sadness, anger, and beneath it all, a lingering defiance, and Thor did not need Loki’s words.

“Stand,” he commanded, rising and awaiting Loki’s obedience pitilessly. Loki glared wearily at him, not moving immediately.

One of the Inquisitors bent down and seized his arm. “Up,” he said gruffly, yanking Loki unsteadily to his feet.

“Unhand me,” Loki hissed. He twisted his arm out of the man’s grip. He glared at the Inquisitor with a ferocity he was now reluctant to level at Thor.

The Inquisitor made a noise of disgust. “How much more training are you going to need before you’re housebroken, you spiteful little cur?”

“How dare you-”

A backhanded slap to the face broke his sentence. Loki snarled, irate, and readied his hand to leave four long scratches across the Inquisitor’s face, only to be stopped by a chain that wound around his wrist and jerked him back before his arm swooped down. They caught his other arm and the rest of him, pulled him backward onto the flat surface of what felt like a surgical table or an altar. In less time than it would have taken for the Inquisitor to curse him for his insolence, he was spread and restrained and completely fucking helpless again.

Thor walked around the end to approach his exposed torso, inconspicuously drawing a knife from the air as he did so. He passed it off to a thin, gaunt Inquisitor before coming to stand beside Loki. His index finger drew an invisible line from Loki’s sternum to his navel.

“See if you can open him lengthwise from here,” he said. The thin Inquisitor nodded once and stepped in next to Thor.

“Wh... wait, what are you doing?” Loki asked, his voice a quivering whisper.

Thor looked down at him. He didn’t answer.

The blade in the Inquisitor’s hand touched his chest. He flinched upon contact. Thor stepped behind him where he lay, a large hand coming down to seal itself over his throat–to hold him still, he would realize in a moment.

“The body is a remarkable thing,” Thor said. “It can endure so many outside threats, yet often what it succumbs to is a hazard from within. Cells grow cancerous and organs cease proper function–often the only option is invasive surgery. Sometimes, the afflicted area must be removed.”

Loki’s breath came in gasps. The Inquisitor was carefully positioning the blade against his chest. Thor stared him down and Loki looked into his eyes. They were hard and, to Loki, cruel.

“I wonder, if we cut you open, can we find and excise the source of your obscenity as well?”

The knife plunged deep into him and he screamed, writhing against the bonds that held him too tightly to arch off the table. Thor’s hand squeezed around his throat, the vibrations running back and forth beneath the fingers. The Inquisitor made skillful incisions, pulling the flesh open, piercing it with metal wire which sprung from air and fused to the table’s surface to hold it in place.

Loki’s screams died out and he stared straight ahead in horror, refusing to look at the carnage they had made of his body. Thor released a reverent breath, his hand reaching out to hover above the pulsing muscle that was Loki’s beating heart.

“King Laufey’s son, the Crown Prince of Jotunheim,” he said softly, lowly. _I could squeeze and crush your heart and you wouldn’t have time to beg me not to._

“I’ll die.”

Thor’s eyes flickered to Loki’s face, his glazed eyes and parted lips. His voice was a low rasp, but he saw that Loki understood what he was thinking.

So it was. Loki’s magic–his _obscenity_ –though exceptional at healing damage to his body, could not replace organs if they were removed or destroyed.

Thor inspected him through narrowed eyes. At last he shrugged, pulling his hand away and resting it, fingers spread, next to Loki’s head.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

He glanced at each of his Inquisitors and they crowded around the table.

“This will be a test. Nay, an exhibition. Show us how formidable your magic is.”

For the next few hours, Loki strained against the bonds while they prodded at the inside of his body. Withered beneath Thor’s impassive stare. Screamed as an Inquisitor carved the word Laufeyson into his ribcage.

When they left him in the dark, bound to the table and opened to the still air, he stared unmoving into the darkness for hours more, tears streaming from wide, unblinking eyes into his hair, his mouth agape in a silent scream.

 

* * *

 

He woke again and nothing was out of the ordinary. His own fingers ghosted over his torso and found not a single scar from their pulling him apart and forcing him to watch them lift things out of him and carelessly replace them. His mind registered no pain when he pressed his fingers into his flesh where the long incision had been made.

For the first time, Loki’s own magic horrified him. He shuddered for hours in the awareness of his and his magic’s sudden twoness, suspended in a state of wanting to scream and never quite getting there.

Outside, a rainshower descended upon the kingdom of Asgard. Rays of gentle sunlight speared through the droplets.

 

* * *

 

The next time, Thor came alone.

Loki was tied to a chair, conjured into cold and ornate steel, identical to the one that grew from the floor to accomodate the Asgardian prince. Thor asked him if he cared for a tête-à-tête. Loki replied sourly that he wasn’t in the mood.

Thor half-grinned. “I’m beginning to fear that you’ll never make a satisfying conversation partner.”

Loki scowled. “What do you want from me?” he asked, finally voicing his exasperation. Thor owned him. He knew it, and he had made it abundantly clear. Contrary to his nature, Loki had no patience for games.

Thor met him evenly. “What do you think I want?”

Loki watched Thor’s handsome face. He saw visions of himself on all fours before Thor, saw himself revel in Thor’s abuse, imagined Thor’s ugly, taunting insults and his own voice answering, “Yes, Prince Thor.” He envisaged himself welcoming Thor’s hands wrapping around his throat, smiling as the son of Odin snapped his neck.

Loki’s eyes hardened and he swallowed once.

Thor stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. “I suppose you won’t be making this easier on yourself.”

Loki replied, “You know what I think of you.”

Thor said, “Speak freely.” When Loki understandably hesitated, he added, “I may cut out your tongue later.”

Loki glowered, then grinned. “Thor Odinson,” he murmured, his eyes trailing to the floor. “Jotunheim has witnessed your sins viler than what you have inflicted upon me.”

He should stop. He was only going to make it worse.

“How has Asgard the vanity to call itself a kingdom? All of you are a _disease_ that you inflict upon the world.”

Stop. _Stop_.

“May you burn and die and rot alongside your monstrosity of a father.”

The last syllable left his mouth, and then there was a hard gag forcing its way between his teeth. Thor was upon him in an instant.

“Good! I’m glad you could say what you felt.” There was a small vortex of energy at Thor’s side twisting into the length of an Asgardian sword. “Perhaps, to you, we Asgardians are little more than conquerors. From your viewpoint, it is a fair assessment. But you seem, then, to have little understanding of how the conquered ought to behave when they find themselves on their knees in defeat before a superior.” He raised the sword, used the tip of it to tilt Loki’s face toward his. “It will be my pleasure to educate you.”

He plunged the sword into Loki’s shoulder. It pierced through to the other side. Loki screamed behind the gag, and when the sound began to subside, Thor twisted the blade.

Thor pulled more swords and knives from the intimate details of Loki’s magic. He impaled Loki many more times, manipulating his voice like the maestro does an orchestra.

Loki’s exclamations died to groaning cries. Either end of a weapon protruded from his torso, his arms and legs, the back of the chair. The glint of silver was lost beneath the red.

Before Thor left, he released Loki from the belts that bound him to the chair, leaving him to pull each sword and dagger from his body himself. He almost passed out pulling the long Asgardian sword from where it was lodged beside his spine. It clattered raucously to the floor.

The last knife he pulled from his thigh and clasped tightly in his hand, holding it like a sacred thing to his chest. It resembled one of his throwing knives, different slightly in size and design, but so familiar that it gave him a fleeting sense of safety that he knew was false. He fell asleep with it grasped in his palm. He was unconscious when it twisted into vapor.

 

* * *

 

A few of them arrived on their own and Loki did not rise to meet them. Without looking at any of them, he asked blandly, “Where is Thor?”

The strongest among them took three paces and pulled Loki upright by his hair. He seized Loki by the throat and jawbone, hissing in his ear, “You are not worth any more of the Prince’s time than he cares to spend on you.” He shoved Loki away.

Loki looked up with his eyes disinterestedly. “A shame. You aren’t nearly as creative as he is. What will it be today? Another encore of your monotonous routine?”

He didn’t even flinch when a boot came down against the side of his face, grinding his head to the ground.

“Your damned _tongue_ will do you no favors, witch.”

No one should be able to look condescending from as low a position as his, but Loki managed it. “I suppose the actions of dogs are only as sophisticated as their training.” There was audible sarcasm in his voice.

A vein pulsed in the Inquisitor’s temple. He lifted his foot to stomp on Loki’s face, and in the space of that moment Loki slid himself backward, his leg coming up to slam into the backs of the Inquisitor’s knees, toppling him from where he stood. His legs gave out and he landed on his backside, incredulous before a quietly gloating Loki. Scrambling to his feet, Loki could see the rage building in his eyes.

“You _bitch_...”

“This unbelievable bastard...” Another Inquisitor stepped forward before the first could retaliate. “Why don’t I play with him for a bit? I have a present for him.”

He didn’t wait for the others to nod their agreement. He strode toward Loki, the object in his hand glinting as it entered the annulus of light around the mage.

Loki recognized it only from books, small but deadly, and when the Inquisitor pressed the barrel into his deltoid muscle and pulled the trigger in demonstration, Loki knew by the pain screaming through his shoulder that he was seeing a gun for the first time.

He fell to the ground, his opposite hand pressing against the wound while his magic frantically pulled it closed, realizing that he hadn’t even heard his cry of pain over the unexpected thunderclap of the gunshot.

The Inquisitor’s mouth was twisted into a disturbing smile. He spun the Midgardian weapon around his finger once and shot Loki again. The bullet seared through his thigh, then another through his bicep.

He had never anticipated what it felt like to be shot to death.

The Inquisitor used the last bullet, changed the magazine. He shot Loki in the chest, clear of the heart.

Loki lay on the floor gasping, paralyzed by sensation. His magic was alarmed; he could feel it reacting to the unfamiliar wound patterns as it mended him. The Inquisitor bent down and pulled him to his knees by his hair in a move popularized by Thor and thoughtlessly shoved the barrel of the gun between Loki’s lips. He tasted the tang of the metal as it scraped against his tongue. It reminded him of the many recent times he had tasted blood.

Loki choked on the gun and tried to pull away; the Inquisitor pulled the gun back just enough for him to shoot a bullet through Loki’s cheek. Loki’s eyes watered. Blood spilled down his chin and the gun was down his throat before the hole closed.

“All it would take to kill you is one millisecond and an incentive, Loki Laufeyson,” the man said calmly.

_Do it then_ , Loki thought, not letting his thoughts show on his face. _Blow my head off and end this for me now_.

The gun depressed his tongue for half a minute more before the Inquisitor kicked him to the floor. The gun scraped his incisors as it left his mouth.

“But Asgard would rather see you suffer.”

A crescendo of wails flowed and ebbed as the Inquisitor emptied another magazine into Loki’s arms and legs, and another. He slowly reloaded, his eyes not leaving the suffering form lain bare and immobilized below. Loki suppressed another cry, his fingers shakily moving to dig out a bullet that had lodged itself in his hipbone. He tossed it away and let his arm fall back to his side, exhaustedly sucking in air, his eyes wet and vision clouded.

The Inquisitor approached him again and kicked him hard in the side, causing Loki to curl into himself in a meek, subconscious effort to protect himself. The man knelt above him, fisting his hair and shoving the gun into the flesh by his jaw. Loki felt the muscles in his neck jump.

“I would like very much to kill you, for every one of my brothers and friends your kind murdered in that war,” the Inquisitor growled low against the shell of Loki’s ear. “But it is too early, still _far_ too early to let this end for you.” He let go and Loki sank back to the ground.

“You vile, iniquitous...” Loki began, turning his head to look at the torturer, but the gun collided with the back of his neck, an angry hand on his shoulder holding him facedown. He felt the uncompromising prod of the barrel move down his spine as the Inquisitor said, “And still you fight.” It dug into the small of his back. The Inquisitor, to himself, muttered, “This witch needs to be broken.” The gun ran over his tailbone. Loki felt its caress, far too intimate, linger next to his entrance.

Scared and enraged and calamitously unthinking, Loki twisted his body, readying a parrying kick. His ankle was caught and pulled, and he was thrown onto his back with the Inquisitor suddenly between his legs. He raised a hand to strike and it was shot, a thin stream of blood following from the puncture in his palm. He vaguely noticed that the man had worked his erection free. The gun rubbed against the junction of his leg and his torso. The gunman’s rough hand ran up the back of his leg, lifting it into the air.

“Stop,” Loki demanded, and then, more timidly, “Please, don’t do this.”

The Inquisitor grinned above him, his eyes shining though they were obscured in shadow. “That’s more like it.”

He tore Loki open and mercilessly began pounding into him, Loki’s cries echoing in the bizarre space as he was fucked on the man’s tumescent member. The gun was pressed into his belly, then abandoned and slid across the floor when it was clear there would be no more resistance. His left leg moved weakly against the Inquisitor’s waist. The Inquisitor hovered over him, watching his face contort in misery and anguish, drinking in the cries and moans that he had no hope of jailing behind his teeth. A particularly hard thrust slid him backward a few inches. He was bleeding. He could see the phallus drive into him and come out red.

Loki lost all sensation beyond the cruel, savage act being forced upon him, his awareness of the eyes watching him forced from his mind as well. His own voice sounded so impossibly distant, too muted for him to hear if he was begging for it to stop. His back arched, he clawed pointlessly against the floor, he bit his lip to stifle the cries that leapt from his mouth as soon as the pain swelled anyway. He tried in vain to pry the hands off of him, the soft flesh in the hollows beside his hipbones bruising. And he surrendered, lying back, powerless, while the Inquisitor subjected him to another seven minutes of hell.

His back arched off the floor a final time as the other man, with a last brutal thrust, climaxed inside of him. The others had closed in on him, eager for front row seats to his degradation, but he was blind to their smiles and could only feel, _feel_ his body fill with semen and the Inquisitor slowly retreat from inside of him, victorious and carrying away every spoil that could be plundered from his body.

He lay there, breathing, only waiting for the hands to leave his body, eyes either closed or open seeing nothing. Everything sounded underwater, until a voice he recognized pulled him to the surface.

“What is the meaning of this?”

There was an abrupt scattering of the predators who had closed in on him. Hands left his flesh to quickly readjust clothing. Thor stepped into his vision, blue eyes trained sternly on the perpetrator.

“Your Highness.” The Inquisitor gave a respectful bow of the head. Looking down at Loki’s desecrated form, he said, “The witch pushed me too far.”

“You know I do not approve of this,” Thor said, although the severity in his voice was mitigated.

“Yes, my Prince. Please forgive me my lack of restraint,” his subordinate said with genuine humility.

Thor looked down at Loki, and Loki met his gaze. Thor’s eyes were unreadable.

“Please leave us. That will be all for today.”

The Inquisitors each bowed and obeyed. Loki did not watch them leave. The man who raped him called, “My Lord, I am aware you do not need to be told, but nonetheless, please be wary of this one. He remains uncommonly defiant and cunning, and it would pain me to see him harm or bewitch you.” He vanished, and Loki was left alone with Thor.

Thor watched Loki for what seemed like a long time, whatever conflict was going on in his mind not showing on his face. Finally Loki told him in a voice barely above a whisper, “Whatever bestial torture you plan to inflict upon me, do it and get out.”

Thor, for once, did nothing to punish Loki for his impertinence. For a minute he did not move.

“My men have preempted me,” he said at last. He looked about to turn away, then stopped as if to say something. Whatever it was, he never let himself say it. After rethinking, he said, “Rest for now. And when I return, do not give me a reason to leave you alone with them again.”

He left, and for the first time, the oncoming darkness was a welcome thing. Before the light faded, Loki glimpsed his body, littered with bruises, and his thighs, spattered with blood.

Unseen and unheard, he lay crying quietly in the ultraviolet darkness.

 

* * *

 

In the middle of the night, Thor awoke disturbed, disoriented, and rock hard, horrifically intimate dreams of Loki still entangled in the bedsheets. Shocked and unable to subdue his arousal, he brought himself to completion to the memory of green eyes.

Each night after was the same. Thor had forbidden the Inquisitors entrance to Loki’s cell in his absence, and in his confusion and anxiety, he left Loki alone for longer than he had ever permitted before, intent on avoiding the mage until this sudden attack of nightmarishly erotic dreams ceased. He could not understand the unexpected transformation in how he subconsciously regarded the Jotun prince. While he hated him wholeheartedly, Thor among Asgardians was said to be a man of honor, and though he could show lenience to his men, he could not excuse the act itself. Trapped in dreams of defiling Loki, of making love to Loki, of fucking raw pleasure into Loki, Thor for the first time doubted his own honor. As he found his nights increasingly, repeatedly consumed by lust, a midnight epiphany and the words of the man who raped Loki haunted him.

_It would pain me to see him harm or bewitch you_.

He made it less than a fortnight of weary days and hopeless nights before his possessed body brought him back to the door behind which Loki lay. He passed through it like the wind of a storm. The darkness evaporated in a vortex upon his entry, revealing Loki sitting on the floor with his chin on his knees and his arms across his shins.

No sooner did Loki look up in surprise than was Thor upon him, hands clamping around Loki’s forearms, growling, “What did you do to me?”

Loki tried to pull away, beginning, “What are you–”

“The night you were raped, you must have bewitched me. I cannot explain what is happening to me any other way.”

“Whatever it is you are accusing me of, you know it to be impossible,” Loki countered, frightened. “I have no control over anything that happens here.”

“Then _why_ –”

Thor didn’t finish. Frustrated and baffled and almost terrified by what he could not explain, he lunged forward and kissed Loki hard, his hand coming up to cradle Loki’s head in what might have looked romantic if it did not have the pressure of a thunderstorm behind it.

He felt Loki’s entire form stiffen and try once to jolt away, felt a moan beneath his palm as he forced his tongue into Loki’s mouth. Loki fell under the weight of the kiss and Thor landed on top of him, kissing him breathless, running his left hand ferociously down the length of Loki’s body and feeling it rise into his touch. His lips trailed down to Loki’s throat, and he kissed the hollow he found there. His hand moved between Loki’s legs.

He felt hands on his shoulders, pushing him back. “Wait,” Loki said, trying to sit up, and Thor, with a great hand on his chest, pushed him back to the floor.

“Don’t,” he said. “Please, don’t tell me to stop.”

It was the kindest he could be to Loki, staring intensely into the verdant eyes, and then he looked away, shoving two fingers into the lean body. Loki’s single cry pierced the atmosphere between them. He glanced up once more to see that the green-eyed mage had turned his face away and closed his eyes. He closed his own, briefly, then reached into his clothes, fingers wrapping around his hard member. Thor braced himself and thrust inside. Loki’s breath hitched and his body tightened, eyes opening wide in shock.

Thor gritted his teeth and began a steady rhythm. He resisted the urge to say _I’m sorry_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about Midgard: It recognizes Asgard's superiority although it is military and technologically powerful itself. Its greatest weakness is the complete lack of magic. It has diplomatic and trade relations with Asgard, with whom it maintains an unequal treaty.
> 
> I really hated how the last couple of chapters went, and while I've known since the beginning where I want to take this, deciding how to go about Chapter Four was difficult. Everyone who has been leaving positive feedback, this chapter is for you, because I probably would have given up if I were only writing for myself.


	5. ...sunt talia, quod non possunt nisi opere Daemonum fieri

Thor removed himself from Loki, and the silence was terrible. Thor’s skin cooled and his heartbeat slowed, but his chest felt tight. Loki lay where he’d been left, unmoving, eyes staring upward as if unseeing. There was white noise in Thor’s head, far in the background as though heard from a great distance or from behind a castle door, and for a moment he could not look at the witch.

Finally he turned his gaze upon the creature on the floor. Loki wordlessly sat up, pain evident only in the sluggishness of his movement, making no effort to hide the blood and seed that trickled from between his thighs. What modesty was left to him now?

Loki looked at him at last, and his gaze was merely tired. “Are you quite finished?” he said, his voice laced with an artful boredom that almost masked the hatreds beneath it. “I had truly no idea when I arrived here how _well-liked_ I would be amongst the Aesir. I suppose you were a little better than your dog. Rejoice, Odinson! You continue to outshine all others, even at _rape_.”

Thor’s angry hand smothered Loki’s face and sent the back of his head crashing against the floor.

“You don’t know when to shut your fucking mouth, do you?” he growled. “There is naught but trickery in you; you birth evil in everything you touch. Every one of us knows what you did in that war! You are no victim, Loki Laufeyson.”

He was above Loki again, the fury in his fingers threatening to crush Loki’s skull. He glared down at Loki’s face, prepared to spit the fire on his tongue—

Loki’s eye stared up at him from between his fingers, green and dry and without accusation, for once silent and acquiescent. Thor found that eye looking at him, just _looking at him_ , and like an antivenin it gelded his words of rancor yet unsaid. The pressure beneath Thor’s fingertips faded, and he slowly retracted his hand. His fingertips which briefly, lightly brushed Loki’s skin may as well have been thorns.

They both were silent, faces unexpressive, and in the nothing there was _something_. Loki’s eyes did not follow Thor when he withdrew his hand, and they did not follow him out the door and into the light that only he could see.

 

* * *

 

The Inquisitors, when they resumed their much unappreciated visits to his prison, no longer did so in large groups. They came single file, occasionally in pairs, but they were more methodical, much less emotional than before. Though each wave of them burst from a sea of faces he hadn’t bothered to commit to memory, he suspected that these may be new Inquisitors, less prone to comfort in their power and to distinction over obedience. They performed their duty and did no more, with the majority of them practicing what must have been a well studied stoicism while sometimes in moments of weakness sporting a grimace at the sounds of his screams and the deluge of his blood.

There was one—a lean, wide-eyed young man of average tall Asgardian height—whose eyes flickered when he was present for Loki’s tortures. The first time Loki saw him, he was accompanying an older Inquisitor and played an auxiliary role, following the orders of his senior with neither hesitation nor enthusiasm. A trainee in torture, Loki concluded, as on command the young man thrust a pair of large iron pliers through a gash in his flesh and promptly shattered the bones in his forearm. Loki screamed, and the young man paled on hearing the crunch. Blinded by tears, Loki stared sightlessly upward until his vision refocused onto this man’s face, his eyes, the vicarious pain in them and that singular, damning echo of _sympathy_.

And for the first time that Loki could bring to memory, he felt hope, because this man would become his ally.

He waited for the days it took to see this man again, the weeks it took for him to come to Loki alone. He let the man begin his gruesome artwork upon his body, and in that moment of near resolve where he had Loki open and vulnerable, Loki whispered the word, “Please.”

The man reacted as though he’d been stung, gaping open-mouthed down at Loki. He hadn’t spoken so much as a word to the Inquisitors once it became clear that they had been instructed not to speak to him, and the newcomer must have been shocked to hear his throat produce a sound that was not a whimper or a scream.

“Please,” he said again, a wet, choking sound. “Please stop.”

The man hesitated, frozen in indecision, unblinking, even. Loki swallowed, trying to summon a boldness that Thor’s men had spent countless days and nights excising from him. “What is your name?” he asked, his green eyes meeting hazel.

Another moment of uncertainty, then the young man answered, “Thialfi.”

“Thialfi,” Loki repeated. “Please, stop. I beg of you, allow me a moment of respite.”

Thialfi’s eyes darted between Loki’s eyes and his own deed, bathed in self-conflict. “I...”

“Please,” Loki implored, letting an unfeigned desperation strain the syllable.

There was a tense pause, and slowly Thialfi removed himself from his work space, watching Loki the entire time. Seeing the pain and relief fluttering about hooded irises, he felt a sudden jolt of sickness and threw the metal tool in his hands to the floor, leaving his blood-covered fingers empty and shaking.

Loki moaned softly as his flesh knitted itself back together. He looked with gratitude at Thialfi and said, “Thank you.”

Thialfi didn’t speak as the room returned itself to normal, the simple structure and crude tools a testimony to how new Thialfi was at manipulating his magic. _He is as green as a summer’s day_ , Loki thought, _and he is to be my ladder back up to the light._

Loki pushed himself upright, careful not to do anything to alarm Thialfi. He slowly stood, though his legs gave out and he stumbled back to the floor. Thialfi finally ended his statue-like stillness and in a rush of instinct rushed to Loki’s side. “Witch,” he said, “are you...” The question was absurd, he knew, but he asked anyway. “Are you okay?”

“Loki,” the witch said in answer. “My name is Loki.”

He could almost feel bad for how he made the youth wrestle with his indecision, except common courtesies like sympathy had been so long denied to him that he found it easier to forget them.

“Loki,” Thialfi repeated at last. Loki raised his eyes from the floor to give him a reserved glance which may come off as shy to those who saw his vulnerability and not the dangerous creature beneath it.

“Yes,” he said. It was strange hearing his name spoken again— _Loki_ instead of _witch_ or worse. “You... you are only recently an Inquisitor, aren’t you, Thialfi.”

Thialfi reddened almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps one of the last, now that you are here.”

Loki chuckled. “Indeed, and I should be glad for it.”

Thialfi frowned, but Loki merely shook his head once and said, “Have you long served the House of Odin?”

Thialfi, on the verge of answering, cut himself short. “I shouldn’t be speaking to you.” Loki grabbed his arm in both hands as he tried to stand.

“I beg of you,” he pleaded, “don’t leave yet. Thor has allowed no one to speak to me but in cruelty and rebuke, nor to touch me but to inflict pain. You are the only person who has even given me the gift of being heard.”

The young man’s eyes softened, the fear began to leave them, and Loki made his next play. “You are the last to show me kindness since I was parted from my mother.”

“Mother?” Thialfi echoed, trying to figure how many years that must have been, if it could possibly be that Loki was referring to the woman who had birthed him long before the war.

“Not my Jotun mother,” Loki answered the unasked question. “There was a woman who found me in my long days of wandering when I was left on my own after the war. My magic had given me back my life, but not much else. She lived in isolation and allowed me to stay with her.” Loki gave a soft laugh, fondly. “I was merely a youth back then as well.”

It was as if Thialfi could not fathom the idea of a Jotun feeling such emotions as love, going by his expression—and likely it was that that’s what he had always been told. “Why do you call her ‘Mother?’” he asked. “Did you forget your true mother so easily?”

Loki’s lips tightened. “I barely knew her,” he explained. “I was a prince, yes, the son of Laufey... but I was not loved as his son.”

“Why?” Thialfi asked, curious in spite of himself.

Loki’s eyes fell back to his feet. “I... was many things that the Royal Throne of Jotunheim did not desire, and few of the things it needed me to be.”

He did not elaborate, instead watching from the corner of his eyes and letting Thialfi draw his own conclusions. The other’s eyes flickered, in sympathy or understanding.

“My father had other sons,” Loki spoke softly. “I’m sure that if he were alive to know that, of our family, I was the one to survive, he would be so unhappy as to approve of your punishments for me.”

It was horrifying and it was likely true—Thialfi appeared sickened by the knowledge.

“My parents were commoners,” he said, “but they loved me. And they never failed to let me know it.”

Loki asked gently, “What happened to them?”

“They were killed in the war,” Thialfi said, and for the first time Loki saw his features cloud with bitterness. “I had gone to fight in the conscript army, only to be turned away on account of my youth. When I arrived back at the farm, our land had been raided, and my parents had died protecting my sister. That’s why... When I came of age, I swore I would join the Inquisitors and hunt down every last one of the Jotun monsters.”

A hand touched his shoulder, and his muscles tensed with the instinctive urge to throw it off, but he looked into the eyes of its owner, kaleidoscopes of green subdued with sincerity and sympathy toward a peasant boy of all things, and stilled.

“I’m sorry,” Loki said softly.

Thialfi lowered his eyes, expressive with the pain of loss. For a while they slipped into a somehow comfortable silence, connected by the warm weight of Loki’s hand.

 

* * *

 

It was different, now, from the first time he had been fucked and left sobbing on the floor. Thor took him from behind, Loki’s hip bones on the verge of breaking and trails of blood spiraling down his thighs from where they blossomed like a red flower at their joining.

“What have you done to me?” Thor had once bitten out between thrusts, to which Loki had replied, “I don’t recall holding you down and forcing myself onto your cock,” and earned himself a broken collarbone.

They fucked wordlessly right now, impersonally, and, but for the sounds and scents of fast and forcible copulation, with mutual detachment from the act and its meanings. At the apex of his pleasure, Thor flipped Loki over, his penis leaving Loki’s entrance before he was finished orgasming, and shot his seed onto Loki’s belly. Loki’s own half-hard member stood between his crimson thighs as Thor bit deep into his neck and left that red as well.

 

* * *

 

Loki didn’t see Thialfi terribly often, but his appearances became more recurrent as he gained experience, as it must have been thought he was doing instead of bonding with Loki. Suspicious of his own good fortune, Loki questioned why the Inquisitors now came to him one by one, to which Thialfi replied that it was on orders from Prince Thor, that no Inquisitor would overstep his boundaries. Filing that away, Loki pressed on to ask Thialfi of news of the outside world—what had changed, what season was it, had Thialfi by any chance heard word of his mother. (He hadn’t, and though unsurprised, Loki’s chest ached just a bit.)

He curled his fingers in the cloak that Thialfi had covered him with to protect his modesty—the first time in too long that he had been afforded such decency, and let Thialfi take charge of the conversation.

They moved on to talk of the past, Thialfi’s family a memory he seemed eager to keep alive. His sister was still alive, he told the Witch of Jotunheim, as he had discovered after stumbling upon the corpses of his parents, collapsing in relief and anger and misery as he found her in her hiding spot and they wailed their sorrow to the skies in each other’s arms.

“We used to play together as children,” Thialfi told Loki, of the sister whom he had made his responsibility to protect with his own life. “We would climb trees and jump from the branches into the great river below. Roskva and I would compete in trying to skip stones across the river to see how far we could come to hitting Jotunheim’s shore.”

Loki, who had been listening with a gentle smile at the fleeting joy the memory brought to Thialfi’s face, frowned suddenly. “Thialfi,” he said slowly. “This river... you can’t be referring to the river Ifing?”

Thialfi nodded, confirming that Loki’s surprise was not misplaced. The great river Ifing, which never freezes over and creates the border between Asgard and Jotunheim. Loki had seen it only once before the war. He wondered how far that could have been from where Thialfi and his sister played.

“My parents emigrated from Vanaheim and lived humbly as farmers. A spot surrounded by wilderness in the quiet that the city cannot touch—that was all they could get, and all they wanted.”

“Was it known that they were Vanir?” Loki prompted.

Thialfi gave a lopsided smile, replying, “Such things are not hidden from the eyes and ears of the throne.” He said after a brief pause, “We were never treated cruelly, though. It’d been long enough that we could expect to be treated civilly though... right?”

Before the war with Jotunheim, Asgard had warred once with Vanaheim, intensely skilled magic users in their own right, although traditionally their talents were not used for combat. Heated tensions toward one another had cooled in the years following the war, but when fighting began against the witches of Jotunheim, a choice number of Asgardians had taken to violence against any and all magic users, despite the fact that use of magic among Asgardians themselves was not unheard of.

“I am pleased to hear it,” Loki said.

Thialfi continued to tell him about his young life and the farmhouse, and Loki let himself be lost in the hum of his voice. “The forest around our home was rich in autumn and golden in summer. My parents even managed to save up enough to buy a tree that grew Idunn’s apples. Magic, they called them... I couldn’t believe how fast it grew.” His voice grew silent, and Loki, who had closed his eyes to let the words flow over him, opened them.

“When I came back that day, it was burning,” Thialfi said in a quiet voice that gradually began to shake with rage. “Roskva and I wanted to bury our parents, but in the end it was entirely too late. The fields, our home, and our parents’ bodies burned.”

Loki’s eyes, staring at a spot on the floor, were wide, though Thialfi didn’t see. In the space left by Thialfi’s revelation, he asked “How far from Ifing was this?”

Thialfi looked sideways at him. “We lived only a league from the river, at its western end.”

Loki met his gaze, slowly. His eyes were unreadable, and it discomfited Thialfi. “Loki?”

The Jotun prisoner’s eyes held a sadness on behalf of his captor. “Thialfi,” he said softly. “During the war, there was a plan to flank Asgard on its western side and trap the capital between two divisions. Laufey’s war strategists sent out a party to infiltrate the area and send word later that it was ready for a greater force to come in conquest. This party was to follow Ifing and break off from it at the western wall.

“But Asgard became aware of the plot and dispatched teams to take out the Jotun infiltrators. With increased security at the western border, reattempting capture was deemed too dangerous, and the plan was abandoned. The Jotun military never made it near the western shore.”

Thialfi’s face donned confusion, then alarm. “Loki, what are you saying... That... can’t be—”

“Furthermore,” Loki continued, “the sons of Jotunheim would never weaponize fire.”

Thialfi’s hands shook, resisting the inevitability of accepting Loki’s words for truth, and Loki wondered if Thialfi would break down in front of him. Suddenly, Thialfi leapt onto him, his body covering Loki’s, his hands fisting in the cloak that covered Loki’s shoulders and which fell open as Loki’s back hit the floor.

Loki clenched his teeth as Thialfi fell upon him, eyes shut in expectation of the worst... but Thialfi only lay there like that, knuckles white and shoulders shaking, as he cried quietly into Loki’s chest. Overcoming his initial bewilderment, Loki, in a gesture of comfort foreign to him now, laid his hands on Thialfi’s back and did not speak while he waited for the sobs to subside.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve actually forbidden the others from fucking me,” Loki said, his body opening for Thor as it was by now trained to do. Thor grunted in what was probably a command for him to shut up, but instead the dark-haired witch went on, “That’s why they come in one at a time, one after the other. No one can have their way with me without the next knowing about it.” His wounds would heal before the bewitched room reset; the semen covering his body would not.

“So you want to keep me all to yourself, do you? I’m touched.”

Thor growled, slapped him, and put him on his belly before thrusting back in, a terribly muscular forearm pinning his neck to the floor. From its expanse, Loki went on, “Your system isn’t perfect, though. What if they were to take my mouth? They could force me to swallow all the evidence and you would never know.”

The next few thrusts slammed Loki against the ground, then Loki’s head was being forced up by his hair and Thor, braced on a knee leaning over him, rubbed his cock against Loki’s cheek and came on his face.

“Erase the evidence, then,” Thor said dangerously. “There are few other purposes for you, slut.”

Loki glared in indignation. Thor, naturally didn’t back down.

“Go on, whore of Jotunheim. And next time, learn to tame your tongue.”

Not breaking eye contact, not speaking, Loki raised his hand to his cheek, wiped the semen from his face with his palm, and slowly licked it off.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t sleep properly anymore,” Thialfi confessed. “I can’t stop wondering if Roskva is safe. She does women’s work in the castle, but... if it were to become known that she is Vanir, would she be killed for it? Would I?”

Loki shook his head. “I couldn’t say.”

“Surely the majority of Asgardians don’t harbor suspicions toward the Vanir?” Thialfi said, struggling to convince himself. “Surely... the majority of them isn’t like that, right?” Again, though, Loki had no answer for him.

Thialfi was battling his own doubt and losing. “I want to protect her. I vowed to. Perhaps I should get us far from here, back to the outskirts of Vanaheim, or at least to a place where the throne will not notice her.”

“I’m sorry,” Loki told him. “I wish I could help you. I would, if I could.”

Thialfi looked at him strangely. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “you could. If I help you first.”

 _At last, it’s happening_. Loki fought to control his heartbeat as he responded, “Do you mean to imply...”

“I’m _saying_ that I will get you out of here, too, Loki. I will free you.”

Tears of relief welled up in Loki’s eyes, whether unbidden or not he refused to wonder. “Thialfi, if you mean what you say, I will figure out a way.” He took Thialfi’s hand and said, “Let’s trust each other.”

Thialfi, newly hardened in his resolve, squeezed Loki’s fingers and said, “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

A month’s time, they agreed upon—enough time to make preparations, including notifying Roskva with as few details as possible.

“I’m scared,” Thialfi confessed. “My hands won’t stop trembling.” He extended a hand for Loki to see, and Loki took it in his own and stilled it.

“I know. Be strong. It’s no easy burden to carry the lives of others on your shoulders. Know that I will be with you, always, in resolve.”

They were going to kill. As if it were in any way unavoidable. When it came time to put their plan to action, the Inquisitor who was to torture Loki before Thialfi would leave this world with a red smile on his throat, if their two man ensemble could manipulate events properly. The two of them were fast; dispatched at the same time, they should be able to take down a man caught off his guard easily.

Still, Thialfi had his concerns. “I’m only a servant, a peasant from a farm. What is there that I can change?”

Loki took Thialfi’s face in both hands, prompting the young man to look him in the eye. “I may be a prince and you a commoner, but you will be my salvation.” He leaned in and gave Thialfi a kiss on the lips. Reaching toward Thialfi’s belt, he pulled the knife at his hip from its leather sheathe, taking it in hand.

“Trust me,” he whispered, pulled back, and deeply slit his wrist, spattering himself with his own blood.

 

* * *

 

Several more times, Thialfi left with a stoic expression, and the next Inquisitor would take his place before the witch, wounds magically healed but skin still crimson with blood. He screamed for them as they flayed parts of his body, penetrated other parts with blades sharper and crueler than their grins, cried and once even begged until Thialfi returned to him with a promise on his lips: “Soon.”

He waited in the dark for the Inquisitors described to him, the penultimate torturer taking his time drawing expressions from Loki’s face, breaking him open just to watch the damage in reverse. Loki endured it, because at last he knew _they would not win_. The murder would buy them enough time to escape, and freed from this prison cell, his magic would return. The bliss of anticipation grew in him steadily, hardened him, gave him strength and courage that they thought they’d cleansed from his marrow.

And so he gasped in pain as the Inquisitor left, knowing that the next would follow suit with Thialfi in the shadows behind him. The man’s form disappeared through the door and Loki closed his eyes, putting himself at peace and at the ready.

Minutes passed, too many minutes, and nobody was coming. Time stretched longer and longer until Loki was actively fighting the paranoid assumptions of his mind. What of the millions of things that could have gone wrong _had_? As his heart beat hard enough to move his body with its pulse, the space before him began to distort, and at long last a figure emerged from the non-light.

In horror, Loki locked wide eyes with Thor, the thunderous Asgardian prince who only came to him when no one was around to witness what he did.

“You seem surprised,” the prince said, his own features uncharacteristically phlegmatic, as behind him followed five of his Inquisitors, two of them holding Thialfi captive between them.

Loki’s lips parted in dismay, and only after he noticed the unsteady way Thialfi’s head lolled, disoriented, did he realize that the Vanir man was missing a hand, blood staining his clothes and the floor beneath him.

“Did you think that anything you did would escape the awareness of Heimdall?” Thor asked quietly. His calm was scarier than his rage. He gazed coolly down at Loki before addressing his Inquisitors. “Execute the traitor.”

“ _No_ ,” Loki cried, as the two holding Thialfi thrust him forward in front of Loki.

“Loki,” he slurred, losing himself to delirium. “Loki, I’m sorry.”

One of them shoved a blade through Thialfi’s throat from the back, the iron sticking out hideously like a tongue. His blood sprayed out over Loki, speckling his cheek. Loki, horrified, could not even blink. The red covered his hair and lips as he tasted Thialfi die.

The world faded out and back in and Loki found himself screaming in despair. He had been _so close_ , his chance was gone now, and he could see in his future only darkness until the moment he lost the last of his sanity.

They dropped the body at his knees where they stung against the floor, covered by his fists clenched so hard the fingernails drew blood. The Inquisitors moved to surround him.

“Do to him as you will,” Thor commanded, a damning carte blanche, and the rest of them jumped upon him with an eagerness that surprised even Loki. They forced him to his knees, promising to make him know the consequences of inciting a betrayal of Prince Thor and all of Asgard.

Loki ignored the hands pawing his bare flesh, the bruising grip on his hips, to slowly raise his eyes from the body on the floor to Thor’s. The two held the stare, unmoving and unblinking, even when an Inquisitor thrust his erection into Loki roughly from behind. Loki and Thor said nothing, their eye contact only broken when another man moved in front of Loki to thrust between his lips.

Thor turned at last and walked away, and only as he was about to fade through the doorway did he begin to hear Loki’s pained, helpless, anguished cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thialfi and his sister appear in Norse mythology as servants to Thor, and he appears in the Marvel universe as an advisor to Thor who later plans to betray him for the greater good. He is, however, discovered and killed for his treachery.
> 
> My fathomless gratitude to those who continue to read this story, and my deepest apologies for the wait.


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